The Rite of Kindling
by Holsch
Summary: They lived on, without gods, without fire, without end. Then the age of dark came to a close when they learned, "a bonfire is fueled by the bones of the undead."
1. 1: DARK SOULS

**...**

**DARK SOULS  
**

**...**

_There was fog at the earliest known juncture. Tufts are found still, drifting over ashen lakes in the deep. "Particles," the new word from Vinheim calls them, "mere particles." That droll Eastern clansman, the merchant (see: my investigations into Oolacile) – he sealed remnants in a bottle and sold it for School purposes. Poor Griggs was made the delivery. He looked so disappointed to make the long trek back, away from me..._

_Bottled fog. If that earliest point is the Age of Ancients, a time we believe was all stone and crag, grey and cold, then 'all' would include these tufts. Could it be that the everlasting were once mere whisps? Did they begin so and then, grown so dense as to block out any light, cool and harden? Or did they, in the end, shrivel and dissolve into dust? Perhaps that final breath was their only warmth, escaped the slightest smoke.  
_

_These are unfounded thoughts, of course. But__ wherever I'm told of hard fact, I must seek more. We know_ there is some energy embedded in the body, observed physically when crystallized. The people of Lordran are certainly familiar with death's ineptitude. The flesh persists, as with the Hollows, or the soul flees, as with the Phantoms. But did they not share form at a time? Which departed the other?  


___Likewise, did the gods_ disappear when the Fire began to fade, or did its fading beget their flight? I look to those who hold power. My dear host huddles in crystal caves; skeletons rest atop their graves, no doubt their master as well; and the swamps, once home to so many firey sorceries, is a blood-soaked, rock-laden pit of poisonous dung.

_No, it seems to me the Fire seeped out and the gods chased after. Some whisper of an Age of Dark, a time for man to lord over itself once the Fire is snuffed out. A time for blood and bone and gods solidified. Man is the persistent flesh, they imagine, the solid and impermanent, and the gods are souls fled, intangible perennials to be brought under rule of steel._

_Ah, but why would gods flee... Why, if they wring ages of power from flames, flames fed with the hard, the grey, and the cold? What could move the eternal?_

_Where are the lords? Gone below, never seen, never known. Where are the dragons? Dead but for rumours, clinging to longevity. Where is humanity? Why, you never need look far for a corpse, or else it'll come to you. The flesh persists to be torn apart._

_And the soul escapes. It is more than the Phantom, tainted and broken, stretched to a shape – the soul is pure. So where is it? This permanent, intangible energy? What remains, however faint? Where is the soul?_

_I asked the Eastern merchant if he would collect another sample. He refused: it had been too perilous a journey to the ashen lake, one he'd only dared to make out of frustration (he sought some artefact in the swamp, a sword of some kind. Easterners...) I insisted, and promised healthy compensation – I was concerned, I told him, that if we wait too long, more daring Scholars would gather up any remaining samples, or else it might all fade away._

_The merchant laughed at me. "Man a hundred years old," he said, "I will be dead, you will be dead, your Scholars will be dead – and the fog will remain."_

– the duke's archives. _Unmarked notebook_ _(678__th__)_, signed "Big Hat".

...


	2. 1-1: Artorias the Abysswalker

...

_Sir Artorias_

...

_New Londo was quiet. Tall and ever expanding, stone after stone clawing to overtake the other, to send towers higher, bridges farther, to go from dappled to bathed in the perpetual moon-glow of sun- and gaslight caught in azure mists._

_And so quiet, Artorias thought, gazing at the city from a slim cliffpath. At night, the city calmed and drowned in the noise of the aqueduct, one of many partitions that allowed humans to ride the sea inland with a whip. And the ample reward, they felt, was a busy harbour. A busy harbour, and a city that seemed devoid of life at night._

_Aspirations to rise beside its namesake, capital Anor Londo, had earned the New a moniker: Kingdom-beneath-the-King. Scorn from the city's four ambitious lords had made the name mostly the merchant's barb of choice when the seatown's innumerable tradeplaces turned up hagglers and, worse, publicans. "Four times the kings, four times the taxes," they'd joke._

_Crass, in Artorias' view, but speaking to a fair point: these man-kings endeavoured too much. Humans had always had a keener mind for expansion, going far beyond the kingdom in the Age of Fire – but who ignited that Age? The gods did, he thought, the gods light the way, and a god's crown is worth more than a man's, or four for that matter._

_The cliffpath turned inward and he ducked into a small cavernous tunnel. Going deeper into the dark, he had to crouch lower and lower, until he was nearly crawling. But finally he reached a dim blue light and the cave opened into a rough-cut, rocky chamber._

_There was a faintly lucent pool at the centre, illuminating little of the cave. Artorias was unconcerned by its means of lighting – a knight of Anor Londo saw many peculiar things – so he promptly called out, "serpent! Show yourself!"_

"_My lord knight," answered the serpent immediately, descending from the unseen overhead: a heavy, drenched cable of a creature, with skin the texture of wet beachrock and a denseness that gave its movements the appearance of a pliable oak. Upside down, the tendrils from its too-human nose flopped beneath its head. "Sir Artorias. I am at your service." _

"_You are Frampt?"_

_The serpent sneered, or perhaps smiled upside-down – its bulging, red eyes narrowed. "I am, as they say, the Kingseeker."_

"_And what kings do you seek? Once you sought out the Lord of Sunlight and slithered into his mercy. Now I find you at the doorstep of another king, or four."_

"_Lord Gwyn attested to my loyalty on the word of his most trusted advisor, Duke Seath–"_

"_Another traitor to the dragons."_

_The serpent screwed its head right side up and nodded solemnly, eyes closed. "We serpents are no dragons."_

_Artorias scoffed. "Snakes and hydras – scale-things, as I see it, and all speak with tongues pointed two ways."_

"_Ah, but we serpents are scaleless–" It hesitated, as if realizing the trap._

"_As is Seath."_

_The serpent was impressed: it smiled, showing seaweed-tangled teeth. "And today you are a scaleseeker, sir Artorias. How may I be of use?"_

_Artorias braced himself. "I need to traverse the Abyss."_

"_You mean to salvage Oolacile. I thought Lord Gwyn commanded the situation be untouched?" It looked away, seemingly oblivious to Artorias' irritation at its knowledge. It turned back to him. "Ah, but he did so on the Duke's suggestion." Artorias was unprovoked – it continued, "perhaps the Lord shares your scepticism... perhaps he listens to dragons, but speaks to knights, telling them of dark, damp caves..."_

_That did it: Artorias gripped the greatsword at his shoulder. "Out with it."_

"_I can be of service, yes. The Abyss is enemy to the Fire, and old servants of Fire have ways to defend against it." It disappeared into the blackness above. A moment later, there was a splash: it appeared from the pool behind Artorias, hacking and coughing violently. There was something insincere about it, Artorias thought. The serpent muttered about its windpipe and stretched its neck high as the knight approached. "You must make a covenant."_

"_A covenant? I'll not remind you again, serpent, I am a man of the king–"_

_"And so you shall remain, as long as you wish." The remark only aggravated Artorias more. "A covenant is not a vow made on sword or honour, but on the soul. The Abyss is a blanching thing, eating away what it will and corrupting what it won't. Resistance must be etched deep into the soul, the core, and radiate outward through sublimation." The word was unfamiliar to Artorias. "You must make a covenant, a blessed covenant, and hold true."_

_Artorias hesitated. A knight of Anor Londo saw many peculiar things, and there were few gods whose power he doubted, but a promise against the Abyss struck him as odd. He had to remind himself: Lord Gwyn had chosen to trust this serpent. "Very well. How?"_

"_Kneel." Begrudgingly, he laid his greatsword down and went to a knee. "Bow your head. Close your eyes, and your hands. Now, say these words:"_

"_Flesh or stone," "flesh or stone," "blood or water," "blood or water," "dark or light," "dark or light," "stripped away, the soul is right," "stripped away... the soul is right."_

_He raised his head, briefly: his eyes met the serpent's, which were mirthless in an unfamiliar way, and even as his hand itched for his sword, Artorias sensed some truth in the creature._

_His eyes fell and closed and the serpent went on, but its voice changed. "You know... the Abyss is full of dreadful things... perhaps it should be tamed, not destroyed. After all, the fires were just lit, but they will surely wane again, and the dark is oh so persistent..."_

"_Lord Gwyn ordered me to defeat the Abyss, not to make a pet of it."_

"_Ah, but Lord Gwyn... he has not returned from the Kiln..."_

_Artorias answered through gritted teeth, head still bowed. "He was wrong sometimes, and for your sake, I hope he was wrong about your loyalty. You'd be better off seeking these man-kings and serving them, I'm sure. But I serve a god. I serve a king whose order is a fire that cannot be doused by any lowlife who would spit on it. Lord Gwyn gave me an order – if it was his last order, his last words even, by my god, my honour, and my sword, they will ring through time for eternity. Now bless me, or I shall make you a graveseeker."_

_The serpent obeyed. "A covenant is made: this soul goes forth purely to keep the Abyss at bay. Reach out your hand." Done with clasping them, Artorias held out his left hand and immediately gripped his sword with the other. There was a splash, then another, and then he felt water pour onto his palm. It must have come from the serpent's mouth._

...

Nothing she said would dissuade them from caution. Not there, they said, not godland. The ship changed course and sailed east around the nearby isle. She moved farther toward the aft as they went, binoculars trained on the mainland, catching a last glimpse before it was eclipsed by the isle's cliffed coast.

Her vigilance was wasted. Leagues across the sea, the kingdom was a slight rock thinning into the horizon, swaddled in places by fog. Her only impression was that in the distant black of night, the grey made the ground below a mere shadow, as if pieces of the land had dissolved.

East, the captain insisted, we land east, closest to sunrise. Crewmen shuffled about anxiously, mumbling agreement. Later, she followed the captain below deck after the ship had a bout of erratic movements. In the hull they found that as they approached the isle, the rowers would drop their oars and turn in their seats so their backs were always to the eastern horizon.

Many rowers clenched chain necklaces wrapped around their fingers. Praise the sun, they whispered into ironbound fists.

Come sunrise, she was in a small galley headed for the isle. Beatrice's slight frame shuddered underneath her heavy, brown cloak. She watched the ship, anchored a ways offcoast, brushed by the slow surge of dawn. Somehow, the light failed to reach her before they came ashore.

...

_Abysswalker Knight Artorias_

...

_Black-and-purple sludge trailed him out of the Abyss. Sat up against the rock wall, strengthless, the corruption pooled beneath him and dripped off the ridge into darkness. Faint torchlight was just up ahead, outside the Chasm's mouth._

"_Mouth." He chuckled. Eaten up, swallowed and spat up sick. His dragged-along swordhand weakly gripped the hilt of his disintegrated greatsword. He was meant to emerge with the Princess, victorious, via the same lift he had descended on. Instead he had fled the other way, drawing the black phantoms away from Sif and his shield, his last protection. _

_Besides his armour: fleeting glances had seen the ruins of corroded plate. Flesh had sloughed out of the cavities in his armour and chainmail. When he could still walk, he'd occasionally hear it slop down at his feet and squish out of his greaves with every step. _

_His other arm was little more than bone. Ooze poured sluggishly out of the shoulder, washing over the ground against the arm's underside. It reminded Artorias of a stream passing a stubborn treetrunk lodged in the rocks. Then, strangely, he thought of a merchant he'd seen in New Londo, on his second visit, after he went to the cave. One of them especially, turbaned, from some distant human kingdom – with a gleam in his tooth –_

_Gold. He recalled why he looked at his left arm. The hand. The ring. He searched for it frantically, deliriously cursing the merchant who sold it, but there was nothing there, no golden hoop, no emerald gemstone – it was gone. He shuddered, thinking it had melted with his ring finger and spilled below, until he remembered he left it along with the shield, with Sif. _

_He sat back a little easier, an inkling of a smile on his face. It's fine, then, he thought, Sif'll see to it, Sif'll get it to her. Ciaran's face swam into mind, ever vivid. He wondered what she'd think of his death. He wondered what she'd look like when she saw his body._

_But what if he survived? He tried to push the thought away. What would she say when he returned? When she learned that he failed to brave the Abyss, that he had never reached its end? That he had been defeated by some primeval _human_, and not even by their own hand?_

_He despaired at the thought. Mercifully, however, it distracted him as he died._

...

Jeremiah was still in the dark embrace of conifer thickets, well after their trek inland began. "You foreigners even have a sluggish sun," he told his escort, half the dark-skinned shipmates from the sixteen-oar galley. They'd already heard his impatience plenty, forced to wait at the cliff landing until the captain and scout returned from the first party, to signal safe passage.

"Nearly there," the bespectacled captain assured him. Jeremiah shot him a raw look. The captain looked like he could be a native of Astora, too, but seaborne decades had fostered him a garbled, tropical accent. Too much mongrel food, Jeremiah thought, it's stuck in his teeth. He saw few beads of sweat on the captain's pale neck. Jeremiah's blonde hair, meanwhile, had been stewed lank by drops of exhaustion, staining the stiff neck of his burgundy longcoat.

Dark as it was, he noticed nothing when looming trees were exchanged for bricks – not until his boots splashed onto shallow water. The tunnel soon opened to brightened sky overhead. Upended cobbles lined the waters and broadleaves lilted in wall-cracks. They passed beneath an arch onto dry rock panels pockmarked by statuesque protrusions.

There waited the first party: eight men, half with unsheathed, bloody scimitars, and the – "Witch." Jeremiah glared at the short-haired brunette. She'd insisted on going with the first party, and though weighed down by her sack-like cloak, she had recovered from the journey while waiting for Jeremiah. "Didn't get far ahead, did you?"

Beatrice smiled tightly, to reassure the shipmates: while they discussed, she and Jeremiah stepped aside. "Jer, you know my studies are meant to be secret–"

"My name is Jeremiah."

Smiling lopsidedly, she played with the gold trim of his coat. "I know. I thought a nickname might not be overstepping…" Her eyes flickered up, and Jeremiah saw her discomfort. It pleased him to watch her clumsy attempts at manipulation.

"Of course. But there's no need to censor yourself, I doubt these seadogs understand a word."

Beatrice pulled away, stricken. Bless her heart, Jeremiah thought. "They're worn sails of the Sandsea Islands. Many of them speak more languages than they have fingers."

"A thousand bronze to a single gold." He fished out a single coin and bit into it, grinning. "Remember that. After all, that gold is your tuition. Speaking of which, where is your cloak?"

"I'm wearing it." He didn't waver. "It bears the symbol of guilds. Jeremiah–"

"Put it on. I had it made for you, put it on." When she hesitated, he gripped the silver guard atop his thin, red sheath. "How many academies are there in Astora? Two, three? If one was actually a guild, even the vaguest accusation of witchcraft would root it out soon enough."

"Your father–"

"Unless it's a spell to reanimate the dead, I doubt he'll see what magical cures we bring back. That is, if magic exists at all – if not, you and yours at the academy would only be more dusty scholars, hardly worth the gold. My father should be quite sore if his hard-earned fortune went to waste. Of course, should his assets pass to me..." He looked her over. "A convicted witch without powers is just another woman. And I see plenty of worth in a woman, broom or no."

Beatrice jerked away. Her brown cloak went up over her head and to the ground. She wore a black dress hugged to her waist by a brown leather pouch. She took out Jeremiah's cloak and slung it on. It was dark grey and wrist length with a thick gold hem, and inlaid in shimmering blue glass on the clasp and backside was the symbol of the Dragon School and its offshoots: a crystal on a scroll. It fastened across her chest, leaving the front open.

Silence fell between the two, her glaring unabashed and him smirking back, until the captain announced it was safe to go on another brief stretch. Indeed, it was not far to the next waypoint: down another soaked tunnel into a dilapidated fortification, then a drier tunnel, then a large room where Jeremiah saw several bloodstains. Here the shipmates had filled empty sconces with gaslights: they were brought along to a walkway and down a short drop into a yard.

The shipmates offered help down, and Jeremiah went first so he could help Beatrice in turn – he ran a hand up her leg as she lowered herself and slipped into his arms. She tried to keep away afterward, but he knew and stayed close, amused.

The shipmates set to work scouring the area and climbing the walls to scout ahead. Jeremiah took an easier pace and looked around. A small river ran across the yard and sluiced out. There was a circle of sturdy oaks and between them a stone gazebo. Inside the gazebo stood a well. Mounds of melted wax clung to its base: burned candles. Jeremiah overheard the captain and the witch speaking of shrines. Uninterested but annoyed, he called out, "thirsty, are you?"

Beatrice promptly stepped away. Jeremiah followed her to the well. "I wouldn't drink that," said the captain. "It's been consecrated by pagans." Jeremiah dipped a hand into the cold water, intently watching Beatrice study the well. "This was a lord's hold, they say. Long ago. No doubt it housed soldiers, that I'm sure of. Now, it is visited only by cultists and outlaws with no better home than a rock in the sea. And pirates, of course, when it suits them."

"_Them_?" Jeremiah said with a pointed look. The captain only squinted into the distance, unprovoked. "Where are they, these pagans?"

"A few were here. We dealt with them. Usually there are many more. They come and go, but now they've all gone." He pointed west, over the walls and his watchful men: in the faraway hills, the ruins of another hold stood facing the sea. "It is called the Northern Asylum. It's certainly where those madmen belong, but I'd prefer that they weren't there."

"Why not?"

The captain's brogue was stronger than ever, but the nostalgia in it was unmistakable. "Because we're going there."

...

_Sir Artorias the Abysswalker_

...

_Ciaran didn't weep. Not out in the sun, anyway, knelt at his resting place. The traveller, that mystery who vowed to rescue the Princess, assured her the knight had been beyond saving, that it'd been a mercy. So far past the threshold had he been that he left no body – he simply roared, "a roar twofold", as if one voice wrested another out of his throat. The strange lights exploded from him, and as they faded, there remained a brief glimpse of Artorias, simply Artorias – a knight to the last, greatsword in hand._

_The hero gave Ciaran the dense mass of Artorias' soul: deep purpura swam at its surface, but beneath shone unclouded white – in fact, the flowing Abyssal infection looked like little fingers running softly over the bright essence, gently holding it._

_Ciaran knelt at the makeshift tombstone in Oolacile. She carefully placed the soul on the ground and took out a gift, one she'd intended to give Artorias before she heard he had left. It was a unique work by the giant blacksmith of Anor Londo, who normally forged tools of war: a silver pendant. It was embellished with the knight's symbol, taken up by his adorers when he grew famed for his chivalry: his greatsword, two rings astride the crossguard for the second of the Four Knights._

"_Bit squat," he had said of the symbol shortened on common jewellery, the last time she ever saw him. "Looks more like a dagger." Ciaran laughed. "It's a tribute," she had answered, "people love you." He had looked so perplexed, mystified even. She laid the pendant on the tomb, took Artorias' soul, and crushed it. When she opened her hand, there was no purple at all – only white light fell a spray onto the tomb and disappeared._

_She said her last blessings, her last goodbye. Then she returned to the royal woods and found the traveller waiting. The beast still lurked below. Together they took the lift into the deep._

_Such a hero has nary a murmur of Dark, the Princess' godmother had said, Artorias will be overcome, swallowed by the Abyss. "Yes," Ciaran thought, "his was a pure soul. But mine is not. The Lord's Blade may be gold dagger and emerald poison, but most of all, it is black shadow."_

_The Abyss would spread no further – no further than her._

...

"Walking the plank," his crewmen called it. The captain had made a reputation and then a trade of ensuring safe passage through the isle to godland. Yet nearing the end, clients always became dissatisfied with his convoy, usually halfway from the lord's hold, when out of the woods they realized he was taking them around the hills instead of across. "The closer you get, the slower you go," the joke was.

Sometimes it'd be a freshwater mate telling the joke, without an inkling of its meaning. The captain would tell them: "the slower you go, the longer you live. Run or crawl, the sharks will wait."

To Beatrice's credit, she didn't complain, unlike her companion. When they sighted the sea, she bit down and strode along the cliffs under a white sun, despite freezing in her flimsy new coat. But once they began arcing in towards the asylum, exhaustion came over her in scowls and irritated tics, hopelessly visible. The captain sighed. She'd be alert soon enough.

By the time they reached the asylum walls, the rest of the party had fallen back, leaving only the captain and the clients, the lesser chance of being seen. They crept around the corner and then hurried to the ridges off the western outcrop – Pilgrim Hill. There they could pause in little alcoves before they went up one-by-one over unsteady footing.

The nobleman insisted he go first. The captain glanced to the asylum: the great hall exterior was far away and would be obscured by rubble walls atop the snow-speckled grasshill, but he was still uneasy. Eager to end the ordeal, he used his hands to make an owl's hoot. Another hoot answered from the hillpeak. "The boy's here?" a gruff voice called. Jeremiah glared at the captain, mouthing the word 'boy', but all he got was a nod to start climbing.

Once the boy was gone, the captain turned to Beatrice. Her look of determination had recovered, but the captain saw the truth of it: she was only hiding uncertainty. She was an open book in most respects: he'd come to know her quite well during their long voyage from Astora, and many times she had shown him tomes and papers, told him of her work.

She was too smart to go on with a smile. He held up a hand to halt. Seeing his concern, she took it. "My lady, I have to ask you a last time. Reconsider this journey. You can still turn back." Beatrice's eyes shied away: she hadn't told anyone about the boy's threats, but the captain was no stranger to the beleaguered. "Half my crew is run from one lord's grasp or another. We're pirates, I have no qualms about it. But those of us who want to quit the life, I see to are never forced to run again. The young lord has no hold over you."

For a moment, she seemed to consider it – but she was only too smart not to. "You've shown me pirates can be nobler than lords, sir. I thank you for that. But I have to go." She clutched her leather pouch filled with books. "From Vinheim to Catarina, research has come to a standstill, every history traced to a blank. All we know is that every line points to this 'godland' from which none return. But no one will, if no one goes."

And the sharks would starve, the captain thought and smiled sadly, saying, "the land is called Lordran, and I hope you will." With that, they set off for the climb.

The captain's melancholy vanished when he heard shouts and the ring of clashing metal. Fearing they'd been spotted from the asylum, he urged Beatrice to climb faster. But when they reached the hill, he found no cultist or outlaw to blame for the battle cries.

Both of them were at a knee, exhausted. Jeremiah's rapier was at his feet, along with half a sleeve and blood trickled from his exposed arm. Across from him, a man was hunched beneath his black cloak. "Vagrant scum," Jeremiah spat, his voice betraying fear, "this traitorous dog tried to kill me–"

"What've you been telling these children, goldhorns?" The captain bristled: he'd told the man not to use that nickname. His cloak shook as he laughed. "Godland? Are you ferrying the Allfather now? How far have the gods fallen, that they pay fare to pirates? Or are these mortals? It's in the land's name, boy, you don't quite belong!"

"Quiet, warrior," the captain hissed, glancing to the asylum, but the man only laughed louder.

"Don't you worry! It's the hour of prayer, and the loons are as pious as your oarsmen! In fact, I'd be worried if I were you, when the storm comes and they decide their hands are better closed around a talisman than an oar." He stood, "trolls and goblins, kelpies and ghouls," and on and on he stood, "and _dragons_!" He shouted to the sky, a sky he might've touched: he stood seven feet tall, giant, wound from neck to boot in coal hide leather, torso adorned with rows of throwing knives, belt quivers bursting with quarrels, blood dried across his chest.

His glare turned on the captain, wild and deep-set into a pale, sweaty face, eyes black as his scraggly, short hair, black as his cloak, which parted to reveal a guard-less greatsword, slumped to the ground from a limp right arm, and a heavy, soiled bag in his other hand. He advanced on them – instinctively, the captain stepped in front of Beatrice, the two of them circling around the warrior. "Enough," the captain said, "it's not our business. We bring them there: that's the end of it."

"Oh, but that's precisely the point." The warrior's arm tensed: his greatsword skipped up and banged down, sending Jeremiah skittering to the others as they backed away, to the hill's edge. "Past this line, there is no end. Even the loons know it. Why else stick around here, with paradise just across the pond?" He dropped the bag with a thud and a squelch.

"Wh-what is that?" Jeremiah asked.

The warrior planted a foot on the bag: where the fabric was thinnest, blood seeped out. "In godland, it's a miracle. So tell me: do you want to take a leap of faith?"

"Beatrice." The captain took her hand again, and again she smiled bravely: such a poor liar. "Hwyl fawr," he whispered.

He had taught her the greetings and goodbyes of his first home, his ancient home. There was a gleam in her eye as she answered, a gleam of real joy. "Hwyl fawr am nawr." Goodbye for now.

While the captain stepped away from the edge, the warrior gave a loud bird whistle. "Last chance, boy." The warrior smirked at Jeremiah. "Your life'll be a smudge on my conscience, but a smudge is enough. Stay and live, or at least learn how to use that toy."

Jeremiah sheathed his rapier, frowning. "Do all animals fear this untamed rock as you do? I would've been concerned about lions and wolves, but perhaps they're all as craven as you."

"Not all," said the warrior. There was a flutter of wings, and then a vast shadow.

...

_Knight Artorias_

...

_Sif was freed. He leapt and lapped at his saviours so eagerly the ring untangled from his hairs and nearly clattered down a pit. The traveller caught and handed it to Ciaran, simply saying "you should have this," and casting an oddly mournful gaze at the wolf. Sif wouldn't leave their side, so they strapped Artorias' shield to his back and let him pad along into the Abyss._

_The phantoms whisked away from their blades, or else disintegrated at their slightest touch. The beast, the Father of the Abyss, was a harder fight, but they won. They won, and as the creature died and disappeared, its chest tore open like cloth coming undone and the Princess spilled from the cavity, unconscious but alive.  
_

_They left the Chasm little more than caverns of brittle rock, an echo chamber for pebbles tumbling at the corrosive touch of a few remaining phantoms – they destroyed the lift and blocked the township gates more for superstition than cautiousness. But in time the Abyss found its footing elsewhere: though New Londo was sealed away, that black, watery pit became a narrow path to Oolacile's, and soon Darkwraiths prowled the deeps of both fallen cities._

_And it was an opportune arrival. The rejuvenation of the Flame should have begun a new Age of Fire, but as Ciaran found on her return to Anor Londo, the coming age did not look to be so radiant. It was at this time that people began to feel a strange sense of difficulty piecing events together: the living learned the fickleness of time. Its unreliable flow threatened all but the most steadfast, much like the Darkwraiths who made to ascend to the township. It might've been a dark age indeed, were it not for one of these most steadfast. _

_It stood at the Chasm's mouth. It was a dreadful creature, twisted, swollen and hardened, a mound of flesh writhing over a mailed figure, a spiked branch jutting out of its spine like a spear. Even when the Darkwraiths fashioned it a prisoner in ball-and-chains, it stood calmly, resolutely: it only attacked when they attempted to ascend out of the Chasm._

_Despite its wretched state, it fought swiftly and deftly, even gracefully. And most of all, devoutly – it never left its station, it never quit its duty, and it never failed its task. The hands of Dark never reached past the chained prisoner: it truly kept the Abyss at bay, forever._

...

Beatrice woke in a startled daze, whirling up from the pond. It was as if the grey sky had quaked open, purple clouds throbbing through, flowering to earth with a pounding roar – but no, it was the black night in a net of gargantuan, gnarled oak branches, the cold moon flooding muted leaves with violent life – and blood, blood in the water, and water in her eyes.

And the roar was a scream - many screams.

A wave of ruined stone arches surrounded her, and shallow water dragged her heavied dress. She saw the crow's hind in the shrine's highest levels, a flurry of coal feathers lit moon-blue, its unfathomable frame twitching into a smattering of twigs, each time puncturing something, releasing another wail.

Seated under the arch of a stone wall, the warrior peered at her morosely, her pouch beside him and greatsword across his knees. "You were lucky, child." The voice seemed horrific to her now, a disgusting, meaty growl, as though his words ran coarse against swallowed flesh. She found herself stumbling back, clinging to a treeroot dipped into the pond for support. "I've tried to figure out the pattern with ol' Snuggly, but as with anything else here, there's no making sense of it." The crow reared its head back and screeched in tandem with the lord in the nest – a strip of him dangled from its beak. "There's just the simple fact: she takes two, drops one and eats the other. That's all you'll find in this place: if something is to live, something else has to die."

"And you do nothing." If she'd had any anger for Jeremiah – no, she'd had much of it – it fell to the warrior now. "He was right, you are craven, you're a traitorous, lying coward."

He sighed and ran a gentle hand over his sword. "I don't really care. I'm simply... crestfallen."

Jeremiah's howl rent the quiet: she closed her eyes to it, helplessly. "The captain... did he know, too?"

The warrior spat at the pond's rim, fixing her with an equal glare. "You child and your knowing. What does it matter if he knew? What does it matter if _you_ know? You call me craven – well, now you know the truth, what will you do of it? The boy dies as we speak, my lady, and you do nothing." He stood suddenly – the clang of his greatsword against cobble was eaten by the vociferous feast above. "Show me, child! What weapon does your pages make, what shield the leather binding? Or–" He held the sword out, tip pointed at her. "I see that mark on your cloak! Do you know magic? Or do you simply hope for it?" His swordarm began to tremble. "Tell me: what is the name of this place? Hm? Do you know that, at least?"

It was too much: at last she faltered, tears joining the pondwater on her face. "L-Lordran."

The warrior bared his mad grin again, but the fire was gone from him. "You're no different from the rest. Pious pirates, the devout and deranged, all so knowing, all so faithful, all so sure the lord of sun or magic or bloody death looks down on you." With a great heave, he slung the greatsword over his shoulder, just as Jeremiah's last living scream washed over them, followed only by the wet, crusty rustle of feathers and twigs. "I told the boy, didn't I, it's in the name. If ever the lord looked down on this land, he ran."

...

* * *

A/N: A publican was, among other things, a tax collector in ancient Rome. The next chapter will be shorter.


	3. 1-2: Lord's Blade Ciaran

...

_Lord's Blades_

...

"_Like smoke through city walls and dancing on the moats, slipping underfoot a giant and out between its toes."_

_A westward wind coursed across the canals and came apart at tower legs – fingers ran up the city, flowed over wet stone foundations to misty warm windows, soared past flying buttresses towards the castle, where they bonded in the gaps and flowered into court._

_The hand became a storm, a breeze to unmoved titan guards, a hail to statues broiled in clerestoried light, a death rattle to mounted heads and restless souls caught in nightly echoes. Then she stood in his hall, where he'd spoken to his highest knights, a foot on the podium steps, closer than she'd ever been before, porcelain mask allowed into a moonshaft._

_His son the prince in gleaming silks spun atop the podium. "When we were small, he told us that if ever we felt unsafe, we could say those words and the Blades would come."_

"_You're still small," she said._

_Gwyndolin smiled without a wrinkle, pale skin flush with diffuse blue. "But I've since learned not to call the Blades. So quiet, so elusive, smoke dancing to and fro, and for what?"_

"_Princess Dusk was not ours to bring back–"_

"_And what of Kalameet? The only trace a ring, and it rightfully belonged to some 'traveller'? And Izalith, who stopped you then from salvaging so much as a single Daughter? The chaos outbreak?" He flitted down to the floor. "But what then is within reach of the Lord's Blades? Again and again, it seems those my father trusted the most fail him."_

"_Trusted or no, the Blades are the Lord's, without question–"_

"_And in the end, he asked nothing of you. It fell to me to send you into the Abyss, in secret – my father, meanwhile, overlooked you. Sheathed you, if you will."_

_She receded to a hollow between two panes' bright shadows. "And what difference it made," he carried on, "the Wolf failed, as well. And in a Blade's light hands, he too slipped away. So I suppose my father was right not to trust you."_

_A soft wind grazed his silver hair and spread his robes slightly from his wispy frame. She whispered, unseen. "I couldn't find your sister."_

_He smirked. "Perhaps she hasn't said the words. After all, why bother–"_

"_To be clear," she whispered, "I stopped searching," a little louder, "it seems to me in his children's hands, the kingdom is going up in smoke–"_

_A thin crease crept across his nose ridge. "I am not his child, I am his successor–"_

"_You," she snarled, "are just a boy–"_

_A wild flash outside – the overcast sky went up in a blaze, and hot gold sunset flooded the city, burst through the glass – the prince was cast in relief, his glow replaced by harsh greys. "I am Gwyndolin, Lord of Light, heir to the throne and all its subjects."_

"_There is no throne. You've never been allowed in his hall, have you? He stood for his men, and they were only below him when they knelt."_

_White streaked out of the dark. The porcelain mask clattered to the floor, within sunlight ebbed away before its echo did._

...

On the third night, the spray of snow spilled down the ceiling hatch was joined by the sounds of gruff voices, crunching footsteps and twigs snapping. Soon after, the hatch was shut.

"You're a cleric, aren't you? And they're pagans. That's some faith. You could join them."

Leeroy touched his bristly, graying beard. It was dry. He touched his nose: dry, too, nostrils flaky after much wiping. But the hatch was shut now, and the cold gone.

"Say your pilgrimage proved fruitless, and you'll forsake your god for another."

Beneath his sackcloth cloak, he grasped the knot of canvas hung from his neck. The torch outside the cell flickered, lackluster warmth after days in the drift. When he looked into the fire, everything in the encroaching dimness became fainter still.

"You have to say something. I won't lie to her."

His eyes sought Ricard's peering at him from the wall across – the boy's blues shied away.

"Neither will I," Leeroy said. A lightness swept the dusty cobbles – the torch went out.

No sooner did aimless night envelop them than a point flared up in the other far end of the jail aisle: a sliver of yellow slipped through the crack in the dark and red cinders pried it open, giving way to a torch in a leather glove dispersing blackness from narrow sandstone walls and crooked metal bars. The hand became an arm, a chest, dull brown ringmail and dirty greaves –

And a face. First blank, then constantly shifting in waves of blue and yellow. A brass helm visor, Leeroy saw, flattened onto a wooden mask. She came to the bars.

"Change of plans. They're done waiting, say tomorrow's sun'll be better for it. Not that I'll stay to see. Last chance, they only want one. Make your case." Her muffled voice was as impassive as her face, the visor bore down on one of them, which one they couldn't tell.

"I must go to godland," Ricard said. "Too many lives are staked on it. This is not between two people," he gestured at Leeroy, "perhaps if it were him and someone else, but not me."

"What exactly is your business there?"

He sat up, intent – he'd been preparing for this. "Twelve centuries ago, my kingdom–"

"Save it." The visor angled toward Leeroy. "He claims importance. Do you?"

"It is not for me to say."

"For whom is it, then?" When Leeroy didn't reply, the visor angled to Ricard and back. "The boy surrenders you. You've no response?"

Leeroy looked to the young man, too, and saw pit stains in his wispy undershirt. "Life is allotted equally, and a greater loss unspent."

"The old die gracefully, it goes, though I always figured they couldn't do much but lie down. Very well. We leave at dawn, boy."

She was paces away when Leeroy called out. "I believe I owe you thanks!" You must know the warden? Unpleasant fellow. I can't imagine he'd observe my complaints about the cold."

Despite the visor, he was certain she glanced to the closed hatch. "They're in the yard gathering firewood. I don't care for the noise. And, I don't need my hands bloodied by an old man dead of the sniffles."

He laughed. "God bless you."

"Different gods in different lands. That's why you pilgrims always end up disappointed." She left, and her back became a small faint point. But her voice carried: "And you won't have to worry about the cold much longer. Who do you think the firewood is for?"

...

_the Hornet_

...

_A red tunnel brought her out to simmering air and a vast rock sky bursting at the seams with orange-veined light. A sturdy grey bridge turned out to be an arch connecting two buildings already swallowed by cooling mountains. Far below, more structures were half-immersed in the cliffs, and below that, drowning roofs spoke to what lied beneath the magma flood._

_The Hornet chased the witch to the ends of Izalith. On the way in, she saw the beehive-like outcroppings in the Lower Bell antechamber, and below, she heard the pained cries emanated from within the walls. Striding across the cool floors of the great bridgeway, she saw the unprecedented for the burrow city: branches in the roadside dirt, little grey tendrils wormed out of the bricks, tangling as they struck out for open air._

_Outside, in the balm atop the bridge itself, she saw the survivors walking the red flows that filled the once-valleys: halves of the chaos creatures that would go on plaguing Izalith. Charred black, yes, but melted they became dark sludge that persisted on the magma's surface, and eventually birthed their deformed shapes again. She had seen that darkness before._

_She assumed the rest as she chased the witch out of the upper ruins and backed her up against a stone slab tucked away in a cliffside crevasse. She had little interest then, but she asked a name, "Quelana", what happened, "we tried to light a fire," with what, "archtrees," why, and the witch grew angry then, "what do you know, flesh-walker? You plainly see that a fire dies, yet you ask why we'd feed it?"_

_The Hornet, tired of questions and tired of blame, pushed the witch back, unsheathed her silver tracer and swung. A small, lethal cut appeared on the witch's wrist, and she fell back on the stone slab asking "why?" The Hornet thought on it and answered, for me._

...

"Hurry up, then!" The spindly warden's head bobbed over the edge above, scarred brow and sunken pits beneath leering out of ragged scarves. Leeroy gripped the ladder rungs and paused until the warden stopped yanking on his cuff-leash. "Oh no, get moving, cleric! The inmates're getting impatient, and I'm none to keep a feast waiting!"

The warden led him up the ladder, out into the sunlit courtyard to Pilgrim Hill and over to the small well in the middle of the snow-crusted plot. He swatted away Leeroy's reaching out, broke the film of ice and cupped the water. "Don't want you damp," he said after drinking a handful.

The great hall facade stood silent, yielding no hint as to what waited. "So she said."

"She?"

"The guard."

The warden eyed him curiously. "Huh. Well, you were a man of god when you came in. Madness was going to catch up with you sooner or later." He yanked Leeroy along to the great hall doors, and Leeroy realized he had only seen the guard by herself.

"What about the other prisoner? The boy?"

"Little boy blondie. Heh. Said he'd sneak out his cell and take my head. Well, there's only been one escapee, and she's dead as all." The warden went to heave the doors open. "It's a two-act. You'll roast all day, he'll roast all night."

"They can't take one?"

He grunted as the doors slid in. "That's what I said, isn't it?"

The screech of a sudden gale through many windholes ushered them inside. There was a rupture in the great hall ceiling, through which a sparse drift spiraled. The unlit bonfire stood in the shade of a perch above the north exit. A wondrous quiet reigned, despite the dozens of inmates surrounding them, in the upper alcoves and seated on the jutting sills, feet dangling over the bottom floor crowds, as peaceful as the scattered marble urns.

Leeroy had seen the ones who captured him at the beach, emaciated yet strong, frail figures jostling inside frayed cloaks, all shrouded in headscarves. In the dark of the beach, however, he hadn't noticed their mutilations: some had twigs sown into their foreheads like insect feelers or antlers grafted to their temples, others had gnarled bones repurposed as ill-fitting fangs – and the worst had no noses, only flat, wet patches in the center of their veiled faces.

Were they in pain, they didn't show it. They cleared the floor, heads bowed into closed fists, and appeared to pray as the warden pulled him to the firewood. Iron chains, Leeroy saw, their fingers were wrapped in little iron chains.

"I'll do the honors," the warden said, spilling a pouch of black grains onto the wood and retrieving a matchbox. "They're busy, as you can tell." When Leeroy's attention stayed with the inmates, the warden took the exotic sword at his belt and swatted the cleric. "In with you."

Leeroy stepped into the bonfire's foothold and leaned against the stock. The warden circled and tied him down with the leash. "Wait," Leeroy said. He lifted his arms to under his cloak. "Go on." The warden did, tying Leeroy's raised arms to his chest.

"A prayer, eh? That's it?" The warden stepped onto the wood and fastened the leash to the stock. "You'll go quietly? No pleas, no curses, no wrath?"

"It's not for me to say." Leeroy waited until the warden circled around to face him. "I can't presume to save my life. It doesn't belong to me, so it's out of my control: it won't be altered by any plea or curse or wrath of mine. So, I pray."

"For what?"

"God." The cleric looked to the sky through the ceiling. "Gods." Snow flecked his beard. There was a tearing sound: he looked down to see the warden held a lit match, a small yellow point amidst white snow, gray bricks, green weeds and brown, scarred brows. "The plea of the gods. The curse of the gods." Leeroy smiled and closed his eyes. Beneath his sackcloth cloak, he gripped a knot of canvas. "The wrath of the gods."

...

_Lord's Blade Ciaran, of Gwyn's Four Knights_

...

"_Hah hah... Was your eye glancing here? You don't need to hide your wonder. I am a mushroom, after all. Hee hee hee..."_

_Ciaran's arm shook under the weight of her body, leaning against the stone pillar. She might've glanced across the sanctuary to Elizabeth, but moreso to the bonfire between them. The sun was on her clammy forehead, and her eyelids were heavy. She focused on the unbroken line between her and Elizabeth, and the statues around them drifted away._

"_It's not so strange... We Four Knights, we... we've seen stranger..." She stumbled forward and rested her back against the pillar. "It's just, I'm sure I've seen you before..." Her chipped silver tracer slipped from her side as she pressed the red gash at her abdomen. "Ivory Elizabeth... The Blades observed you, your new sorceries were of some interest..."_

"_To some more than others, I imagine. Your findings are stored in the Archives, yes?" In response, Ciaran spat on the ground, and Elizabeth laughed. "I share the sentiment, but… But yes, you might have recognized me once. A woman," she said, and the rest was conjured into Ciaran's mind: a clean porch, a round house, mossy shingles and a slight figure in a rocking chair. "That was before the Abyss, you see. Perhaps, long before."_

_Ciaran's knees were buckling. "Tell me," she whispered, "about Artorias."_

_For a moment, she thought her voice might not have reached Elizabeth. Then, "he was a wild boy. Too wild. Were he any weaker, any less an animal, the forest would've eaten him in infancy. As it was, it welcomed him, sometimes feared him, and once he learned to fear, it loved him. I don't know where he came from: he was just a bundle in a woman's arms, no more. I'm sure you didn't know that. He couldn't help being the Wolf, but as he grew, he would only be called 'a man' if it were followed by 'of the king'. He was very serious about that! But, in the end, he was a man, king or no. We argued and argued, until he said, 'orders aside, I have to go'. That's what he felt, and he always would have. Too wild, I say, too wild."_

_Something crept beside Ciaran, but she was not disturbed: it was only Sif sniffing through the leaves. He lied down and rested his head on her foot. A fat grey cat had appeared, too, by the bonfire. More creatures came: red frogs hopped and green snakes flowed over each other from the western tunnel, and from the eastern path arrived at once a flock of birds, a cyclone of scorpions and a white lion, all tottering to the flames._

"_You've done enough, dear," Elizabeth said. "Rest."_

_Ciaran nodded and stood, ripping her goldsword from its sheath. Her eyes swept away from the fire, and her audience returned to her attention – the dozens of Blades perched on the statues, in their new blue and yellow armor, watching her from behind brass visors. "Go back to your boy king," she shouted, "and tell him this place is out of his reach."_

_She was at a knee by the end of the words, but nonetheless they departed the sanctuary one by one, scattering over the hills. They sluiced out between the shoulders of people arriving. Children – and, as Ciaran saw when they descended to the forest floor, animated stone golems poised on the sanctuary rim, carrying greatswords not unlike Lord Gwyn's._

_The children flooded into the aisles between the statues and emerged with swords taken from the ones Ciaran had already felled. There were tens of them – straight swords, curved, rapiers and knives and great ones held by twos and threes of older boys and girls. They dragged them to her feet and plunged them into the earth – when all the blades were sheathed at her pillar, they crowded to the fire, too, watching her serenely. _

"_So," she said, "it's done? Oolacile lives on?"_

"_Yes," Elizabeth said, "thank you."_

_Warmth flushed Ciaran's weathered cheeks, and she felt the folds of her smile. She gave Sif a gentle pat, stepped around the pillar, and sat._

...

"Just let me–"

"Wait until we're there–"

"But my lady–"

The lady gripped Ricard's arm and jabbed a finger in his face. "I am no lady." She spun around and he hurried after, rifling through a sack of his confiscated equipment while taking care not to slip off the wobbling tiles and muddy grass of Pilgrim Hill.

"There!" He finally unhinged his red-and-white-patterned knight shield. He admired it briefly in the dull, gray sunlight. "Good, they didn't scratch it–"

"Will you," she tore the shield from his grip and slipped it onto her arm, "stop dawdling! I don't know how long they'll be busy in there, we need to get going."

"What does it matter?"

"Oh, you dullard. We're breaking out." They reached the hillpeak: the ocean rocked a countryside down, and in the distant waters floated a speck of fog and stone: the island. "Get your armor. Simple parts first." While he slipped on a hauberk, she watched the great hall doors. "I've been hiding in their halls, waiting. It takes two to leave this place, you see."

Ricard fastened greaves and poleyns over his boots and leggings. "As long as we leave."

"You don't seem to care I've been lying to you."

He cumbersomely yanked down his blue and gold brigandine. "Either way, you're saving my life. Sword?"

"They took it. The rest is here." She tossed over a second sack. Just as Ricard opened it, a loud bang came from the asylum, followed by the sounds of shouting, stomping and crushed wood.

The great hall doors had been smashed open by droves of inmates clambering for something. The crowd split apart for that something as it lashed out with a long blade. "That thin sword," Ricard gasped while absent-mindedly pulling on his aventail, "is that the warden?"

"That fool's hidden in the madmen's skirts for years. Looks like he's finally one of them. But then again, I would hear him at night, talking to that sword... Yulia, he called it–"

The inmates broke apart – the blade and its wielder sped towards them, the pagans in close pursuit. "Oh," Ricard mumbled – his fingers slipped, the sack fell open, and all his arm plates went tumbling into the sea. He caught a gauntlet and nearly followed his helmet off the hill before the lady snatched it up and pushed it into his arms.

"Come on," she turned to the skies and gave a bird whistle, "please–"

Trembling, Ricard struggled with his gauntlet – footfalls were coming fast behind him, and the shouting grew louder every second. His ears twitched – he thought himself mistaken, but they sounded happy.

Another bird whistle. The lady called. "Are you afraid, Ricard?!"

"Wh-why?" he called back.

"It eats you if you're afraid!"

He laughed, confused. "I'm not!"

"You should be!"

The gauntlet slipped on. He turned around.

It was Leeroy thundering towards them in his heavy robes, armed with the warden's sword. And the inmates behind him, laughing and reaching out – fangs and horns aside, some had tossed their headscarves to the winds, and Ricard failed to process the shriveled faces beneath before a vast shadow fell.

God plucked him from the earth. He gripped the bevor of his helm – it might've cut off a bare finger, as tightly as he held it. Everything shook for some time – when it slowed, and he found himself looking downhill again, he was surprised to see it had not been a second, and he was in the midst of being lifted by a finger wrapped around his torso.

And he found himself peering into Leeroy's eyes. A step from the drop, the cleric was still running. He broke eye contact – not to look away, but to close his eyes. He leapt.

...

* * *

A/N: All names are canon.


	4. 1-3: Dragon Slayer Ornstein

...

Anywhere in the shrine, Beatrice could look out on the walls. Cloying fogs lay draped across the battlements and clouded both the lower city and the lands outside. The crow hadn't been back for days, but she couldn't see anywhere she'd like it to take her.

Her options to walk were no less attractive. She could go through the graveyard and down cliffside steps into damp caverns, provided she'd venture a dive into the cave's imminent, water-filled drops. First time down, she'd snuck back to camp stripped after falling in. If that was too literal a watery grave, there was the chamber beneath the shrine, where a lever-pull and a platform raised from the depths flushed up a thick wave. A tempting route, next to throwing herself down a well.

Up the shrine stairs was a pair of elevators: one came down empty when someone went up on the other. The warrior took this path: she would follow him on, and he would shove her off – he'd return minutes or hours or nearly a day later, however long it was until night, and he'd always come back bloodied and torn. The sight of that fearsome giant's wounds kept her from taking the elevator. In fact, after she watched him go up, she could hardly move, dreading the moment the other elevator would bring down whatever had put him in such a state.

That worry swayed her from her last choice, too: the upper city by way of a tunnel bridge glistening in the fog, perhaps the same fog she had spied from the ship. She had learned what comes of chasing that fog, she thought, sat on the branches by the pond peering into binoculars. Tired of thinking, she pulled on Jeremiah's guild cloak and rested against the tree.

She woke that night with a start – something had crashed into the well mere footsteps away. A black, writhing mass – then it howled, and Beatrice calmed, irritated he was still making that joke. "Just little me," the warrior chuckled, doubled over the well's edge, head dripping.

"Rough day?" In response, he threw his catch – the deer carcass slapped against the pond's rim and the slim head splashed into the water. Beatrice slung her cloak over her books. Before she could berate him, the warrior stumbled in facefirst beside the deer.

Beatrice struggled to drag his massive frame out, much less turn it over. He spat a mouthful of water on her dress and when she yelled out angrily, he laughed. "Not as rough as your night!"

She quieted. There were teeming cuts on his face and arms. Usually, he'd come back, tip into the well, fall in a heap and rise stronger the next day. "You'll see to that, won't you," she grumbled and fetched her mortar and pestle. "Lie still."

"Oh!" She retrieved a handful of nearby grass and pink petals. "Cooking me a magic potion? Witchcraft, witchcraft," he dipped his hand in the pond and sprinkled it on the deer.

Beatrice ground up the greens. "It's a simple paste. No magic here." She gripped his chin and slathered the mush on. "You've made that very clear."

"But see, that's for us – we humans, we're an embarrassment to the gods, but their fat tears do miracles for the earth." While she took one arm, he pretended to coordinate a choir with the other. "_Crescent moon, crescent moon_," he sang, "_some flowers never bloom_..."

Beatrice watched his face soften. "You haven't told me your name," she whispered.

"Well," his head was bobbing lazily, "do you believe in past lives?"

She charged on. "Tomorrow, let me go with you."

"As if you want to. Besides, I've made it clear, haven't I? Nothing out there."

"Then why do you come back like this?"

If not for his unworldly stature, he might have looked her peer, younger than many scholars at the academy. But when their eyes met, she thought him ancient. "Do I scare you?"

"No," she lied.

"Then you'll be fine. I'm the worst there is. The most dreadful creature in the world."

He tore his arm away – the motion rolled him over, and he dipped back into the pond. Beatrice scooped up the washed-off paste and wiped it on the deer's hide.

Bubbles rose around the warrior's head as he flailed his arms, pretending to drown. Beatrice scooted away, put her satchel and books behind her and covered herself with the cloak. The wet glass of its crystal-and-scroll symbol shone. She looked to the foggy bridge.

No one comes back, the kindly captain had said. She had less than a month to explore the island and finish her research before the ship returned for her. No one will if no one goes, she had answered. She hadn't been afraid then. She wished she had been, and gone anyway.

...

_Executioner_

...

_Out on the bridge, he heard the hammer: the sunny palace rocked under its force, and as he crossed the unguarded doors, he was met with a wail of ruined marble._

_Smough was gone when he reached the cathedral. Rubble spilled from the pedestal beside the king. Seated beneath the princess' likeness, Gwyndolin gave a welcoming smile._

_Ornstein kneeled at the hall's centre and began to remove his helm. "No need," the boy called. "This won't be long. How fare you, dragonslayer?"_

_He placed his spear flatside on the floor. "Please, my king. You know why I'm here."_

"_We may have severed the abyss from the world, but its effects remain. Oolacile must go."_

"_You cannot trust him. He came to us a betrayer, it is in his nature–"_

"_The Duke has not faulted us yet. He knows his nature is to serve, as with all before the gods, and he recognized the base treason of his kind."_

"_He serves himself. He demands any findings for himself, he builds the archives for himself, he killed every one of his kind for their natural treachery – except himself."_

"_And what is your nature?"_

_Ornstein raised his eyes to the boy. He hoped that his helmet hid his glance towards the lord's statue and its golden greatsword pointed down like an executioner's at rest. "Loyalty."_

"_To your king."_

"_The rightful heir."_

_Gwyndolin beckoned. A silver knight appeared from one of the lifts, dragging a white-robed captive. The bag was pulled from their head: it was a young, pale woman with wispy, blonde hair. A white branch was pushed into her tied-up hands: a catalyst._

_The boy raised his hand. A blue light erupted from nothingness in his palm. Its core seared white against the warm glow from outside. "Go on," he whispered._

_The woman cast a horrified look at Ornstein. Then, as if an invisible cup had been conjured at the branch's tip, a golden light pooled there to form a dense orb – a little sun._

"_These are the betrayers," the boy said and wagged his finger, and his blue light shot at the woman and struck her in the back – she collapsed lifeless in the shadow of the greatsword._

"_My king!"_

"_They were plotting against us, dragonslayer, to usurp us. With heathen imitations of our godly powers, no less. You will be glad to know I've found the princess," indeed, Ornstein nearly stood at this, so relieved, "I've had her sent away for the time being. These are unstable times, and many of the kingdom's subjects have proven unreliable." He waved to the doors, where titan guards once stood. "You are crucial, Ornstein. You are the first, and last, of the Four. In time I will give you absolute command of the Silver Knights. And," he placed a hand on his sister's foot, "when the land is secure, I'll return the princess..."_

_Ornstein put a hand over his heart, bracing himself. _

"_You must simply complete one task. Give Duke Seath your full aid in razing Oolacile."_

_Ornstein took his weapon and stood. He nodded, bowed, and left the hall. Out on the steps, he found that somehow, despite the boy's word, it had been long enough that the sun had set. _

...

The deer was gone in the morning. There was a clay bowl of fresh vegetables set out by the pond when Beatrice woke. The warrior's footsteps were receding toward the upper elevators. She threw off her cloak and chased after. She barely caught his stern glare as it disappeared up the left shaft – she was too hazy to notice the other elevator click down.

"Psst! Witchie!"

Beatrice shrieked and fell back against the wall, but there was no one in the second elevator: she thought she had imagined it, but then –

"Sorry about that!" Where the warrior had gone up was a hole, and peeking over the edge was a dirty-looking, pale head. "Wouldn't have guessed you jumpy!"

"Wh-what?" Beatrice clutched at her side for the small dagger she'd left by the pond.

"You're with the giant, yeah? Anyone camping with him must have a steel set of – well, I suppose you wouldn't. Anyway, didn't mean to scare you, the opposite, really."

Beatrice inched toward the stairs, still wary. "Who are you?"

His bald brow floated up to reveal a long nose and gawky smile. "I guess I'm being a bit familiar. Thing is, I'm keeping to this lil' crevasse down here overlooking the graveyard, so I've seen you about." He blushed and lowered his face again. "I wasn't spying."

She found herself deeply exasperated: despite the rarity of young men in the academy, she'd become familiarized with their looks by sheer frequency. "Your name?"

"Patches!" the man piped up. He caught her glance towards his unevenly fuzzy head and bounced up, revealing a wiry frame covered in patchwork leather. "'Cause of my armor."

He stepped out of the hole and rose a head taller than her. "He's my friend," she blurted out, backing away, "he'll be back any second."

"I'll be gone. That's why I'm here." He followed her down to just outside the shrine. "Since you showed up, he seems calmer. He used to go hound every damned soul on the island, god knows why, I've had a time staying clear of him. I was hoping, if I stick with you..."

Though confused, she focused on the small comfort that he needed her. "And why would he allow it?" It occurred to her: she hadn't requested it when she hired the captain, but perhaps he had ensured her protection, predicting Jeremiah would not suffice.

Patches averted his gaze. "I wouldn't know, would I?" He seemed flustered. "Thing is, I saw your cloak. Vinheim, yeah? There've been plenty of expeditions. None so well-connected, that's probably what did them in. But you, you might got a chance. And me, I... See, I want off this island. And if you survive this place and a big, roomy boat comes to fetch you..."

"Ship," she corrected him, glancing at the stairs, wondering when the warrior would return. "And I'm from Astora. Should I come home empty-handed with a hanger-on, my academy and I might be thought smugglers."

"What do you need, then?"

They reached the campsite. Looking up at Patches under an arch, the crow's nest hovered in Beatrice's peripheral. "I seek the duke's archives. Would you know how to find them?"

"I know something a scholar doesn't? Fancy that!" Patches grinned, and Beatrice was reminded of something besides academy fellows: a textbook sketch of a hyena.

...

_Dragon Slayer Knight  
_

...

_Lightning sparks sprayed from his spear as it plunged into the night air. They marched._

_Ornstein thundered up the slopes: the noise crashed throughout his armour and smattered against the rocky sides of the depressed, empty road. The city was far behind him, and far ahead glowed the vast mouth of a marble arch – the archives._

"_Captain!" He didn't immediately react, unused to the title. A woman appeared beside him – she had changed from her Darkmoon uniform to that of the original Blades, as requested. Porcelain mask in the corner of his eyes, Ornstein could imagine it was Ciaran._

"_The first battalion?"_

"_They're not coming, captain. The silver knights remain with the palace."_

_My knights, Ornstein's growl rattled against his ribcage. The woman disappeared, and he looked to the skies: perched in the pines looming over the road were the hawkeyed archers, bows readied and eyes trained on his trail for the forces that would soon come chasing. _

_They hailed each other, the last with pride in Gough's memory. He had lumbered out of the royal woods and retirement, greatbow in one hand and the head of Kalameet in the other, seemingly on the hunt for more dragons, as blind to reproach as rumours said his eyes were. The joke was __that he took a wrong turn: thinking he was going right, to the Archives, he actually went left and somehow ended up a pile of bones deep below the Catacombs._

_The mouth loomed closer, as did the golden light of the Lordvessel's fog gate – the sight only fuelled Ornstein's determination. He raised an arm and the land troops appeared – light and heavy azure armours draped in wolf pelts, Artorias' clan of warriors bounded across dirt and grass, forming rank across the road and throughout the surrounding woods._

_The sight of them was bittersweet, Ornstein thought as he arrived at the steps to the arch, without his own lion-pelted knights. He looked up: Havel stood poised on the arch pew, as the Rock had insisted on himself, dragon tooth over his shoulder, giving Ornstein a curt nod._

_Ornstein didn't return it, preoccupied with the gate. Only a lord's soul could pass through. The glow called to mind his king, who had given him his strength. That was bittersweet, too: he could not think of the king without his last order, carried out by the other Knights in Oolacile, and of Ornstein's duty to undo that order under the boy who inherited the palace._

_And I'll be known as the traitor, Ornstein thought and pierced the fog._

_Six-eyed channellers lined the walls of the hallways. "Come," they said, their voices boomed as one yet the voice itself distinctly disharmonious, emitted by some howling root in the midst of coalescing splinters, "dragon, slayer, knight," the voice defied consequence and Ornstein would never be able to recall which words came first, "come, lion, come, Gwyn, come–"_

_He reached a tileless, listless room and platform – he pulled the lever to send it pressing up through the air – and all the while, the voice spoke more words, more names, and they seemed part of the winds flushing through the frames of the lift._

_And at the top were the archives: vast, primitive, faceless blocks of wood and stone littered about blue marble floors, unfinished walls sagging under the weight of high walkways, thin spires and halves of stairs precariously reaching out underneath the open sky – the exposed ribs of some gutted behemoth, or the unthinkable maw of a hungry one._

_Creatures came: in the great halls, butterflies blocking out the moonlight, wings split with ease; in the cramped ones, crystallized men rent just as quickly; and in the yard, stomping glaciers crushed by his pommel._

_Ornstein arrived at the mouth of the crystal cave, and he was anticipated: unyielding white-and-blue light blasted out of the depths with a furious, high-pitched gale, and they became a dense coldness, rolling out over the crystals and unfurling slowly, cloying – a deep fog._

"_Come, lion," beckoned the voice, and he marched on without fail, "come, Ornstein," he spun his spear overhead and roared, "come, king," he stumbled a half-step, "come, alone."_

...

"Yeah, see," Patches pointed at the map he'd scrawled in Beatrice's notebook, and she regretted spending the pages, "we go down here through the lower burg, then right up there, sneak real quick to the tower, that'll take us out to the forest, we've got to be careful there but it's not far back to the other end of the burg, then it's the fortress–"

"Fortress?"

"Oh, don't worry. Long as we keep out of the fog, trusty Patches'll see us through, heh heh."

The bridge tunnel dark rendered the map useless, so she focused on not tripping in the shallow waters, sloshing around in too-large boots Patches had conjured from his shrine hideout. Past a gate they came to a caved-in tower. Wreckage had piled in over the stairs, forcing a drop to a platform below. Beatrice reluctantly let fall her satchels to Patches before she jumped.

He handed them back before she asked, and out they went to the lower burg streets. When Beatrice took interest in the back alley, particularly a stiff corpse jammed through the gate at its end, Patches laughed. "There's your notes, friend," he said and pointed up.

The fog laid thick overhead, a monotone whiteness uniformly filling every gap. It shaped with what was below, rising at the stairs ahead. As they went up, passing a small dead-end room and onto a winding, ruinous street alive with floral overgrowth, the fog lifted exponentially until it dissipated slightly and allowed glimpses of bridges, houses, hints of a greater city above.

Beatrice stared up the entire time they walked, failing to hear Patches. "Hey witchie!" She looked down. "Did you hear? I was wondering, what exactly is it you want to learn?"

"Nevermind that." She shrugged. "What is it about the fog we should keep out of?"

"Fog's bad."

"Mhm. And what's down the other way, that door in the alley?"

"People who like fog." Beatrice looked over and realized he'd been imitating her shrugging.

She took the hint. "This island is a bit of a mystery, you see, yet it's referenced by all kinds of disparate sources. No one knows what to make of it, and it's at the heart of some important questions. Theoretically." She clapped her hands together and bowed as if speaking to a child, "and you see, theories must be proven with evidence!"

"Heh heh. You know, I've never bothered with the archives, but I've heard funny things. The kind of research done there? All kinds of crazy things."

Beatrice stood up. "All theories are crazy, until proven."

"You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"I answered your question, now tell me about the fog."

Patches frowned. "Like I said, it's bad."

"Bad how?"

"Well, for one, nosy people get obsessed with it and go mad." Beatrice smiled tightly and shrugged. "All I know is, if you stay out of it, you might live to leave this island." She did it again, and he sighed. "Alright. Let me you why I'm here in the first place."

Beatrice's smile faded. "Graverobbing," Patches said. "See, I'm from Astora, too. Not so high a station, though, not enough for any academy. Anyway, that particular trade is a dead end unlike any, everyone gets caught. I pried loot from the wrong cold, dead hands, and in a blink I'm locked up on a lord's boat– ship, doing labor for some wizard hopefuls. And in another blink I'm here, holed up in a mountain crack with no company but a bunch of dusty tombstones. D'you know why?"

He had been pacing back and forth – he stopped and craned his neck at her. "Funny enough, there was more food to pick than I ever had back home, but that's not it. It's because I could look out and see graves." He gestured back down the alley, "there's plenty corpses everywhere on this island, but you'll never find a single grave outside that yard. Now, that might be some strange homesickness, but you know what else you won't find in that shrine?" Nodding seriously, as if affirming some belief to himself, he pointed to the grayish smoke tumbled overhead.

He brushed past Beatrice, and she followed. She didn't dare ask anymore questions.

...

_Leo_

...

_Soon as he was off the platform, there was a click above, at the palace bridge lever, and the lift-tower spiralled up behind him. How neatly he would die, stumbled into the royal tomb of his own accord, merely the way back taken from him._

_But Ornstein didn't make it so far. At the top of the stairs, he envisioned the long hall to his king's monument and was too exhausted to go on, stopping steps from the stairway. _

_The princess' statue loomed over him. He couldn't help but laugh: what perversions had lead to this likeness? Had it resembled her or any woman, he would have razed Anor Londo for them, let alone Oolacile. It was easiest to imagine the boy commissioned it, but the king had his peculiarities, too. Ornstein watched the statue's face, thinking he would've run with her._

_The morning sun reached the chamber and caressed his back. He looked to the other statue. Gone, crushed, scattered to the floor. Ornstein pulled off his helm, tossed it aside and sat in the rubble of the destroyed statue, another traitor so deftly removed from the king's graces._

_You were ahead of me there, too, Ornstein thought and smiled at the crumbled pieces of the firstborn. His gauntlets slipped off with ease and released a brief gush of blood, followed by a steady trickle. He removed his Knight ring and set it down in the grains. Farther down the finger was another ring, gleaming gold in the sun – a ring left to him with a note in his quarters, a note carrying a last order:_

'Become king. Only you can lead them.'

"_You were too humble, Solaire," Ornstein chuckled, "but I suppose it was just your nature."_

...

"That's one of the big four – four things we know certainly about this place – we know the three gods myth originates here, we know Balder and Berenike were its contemporaries, we know–" Patches cleared his throat, and Beatrice moved on. "And, we know there was a duke who preserved a great library. That's about it. Not much, but–"

"No kidding! Hee hee, let me tell you, I heard about these snake-men_–_"

He fell silent, watching her. As they came around the corner, the street opened up into a residential area. Vines stretched far up the walls and clung to pocks in the bricks, and there were mossy patches amongst grass prying apart eroded cobbles. In the middle of the area stood a solitary horse buggy. Halfway up a small rise to the stairs Patches had told of, there was a big black spot of residual ash. But Beatrice's attention was elsewhere –

Both of them froze. Just off the rise, there was a wide-brimmed well, windlass intact. On its other side, perched on a slight elevation, was a deer leaning down to drink. It brushed the bucket as it raised its head to look: the skin dangled from one side of its face, the flesh underneath grayed and sinewy, the exposed blood vessels of the pale eyeball bright blue. As it stepped toward them, more skin fell from the hide of its flank.

"Step back." Patches inched forward, drawing a long dagger. "Don't make a sound."

Beatrice did as told and glided back on the balls of her feet carefully, holding her breath. Still focused on the deer, she put a hand out behind her, so as not to walk into the horse buggy. She stepped past it.

A crash – she started forward, but her too-large boots tripped her up and made her fall to the ground – then another crash, and another, as doors slammed open all around her – no, behind her –

But she didn't turn, didn't look away, hardly even noticed Patches spin around, curse and bolt for the stairs to the upper city – she only saw, as if through her binoculars, a little patch on the deer's hide, the edges of its ghastly wound, and the stiff hairs there, covered in a dried, green paste –

An arm wrapped around her neck, a hand clamped over her eyes, but before she screamed, she heard with impossible clarity the distant sound of another slam – and drifting hazily to her mind came a hyena's ugly grin, the words "people who like fog", and the image of a door in an alley, opened.

...


End file.
